


Sundry

by out-here (tacroy)



Category: McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-08 19:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11653083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacroy/pseuds/out-here
Summary: bits from tumblr, mostly nick/griffin, all polygon rpf





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr @ out--here
> 
> =
> 
> this one's kinda nick/griffin, mainly weird academic meta | rated Teen & Up

babylonian: do u think the author is dead?

pencil_rain: what

babylonian: ok you know barthes right

pencil_rain: the fuck

babylonian: semiotics and shit. but specifically that idea that u cant/shouldnt use anything u know about an author to analyze their work

pencil_rain: ok. im listening

pencil_rain: idk why youve decided to go into literary analysis all of a sudden but im listening

babylonian: so like maybe u dont know anything about the history of some fucken book youre reading but like it doesnt matter bc whatever that writer put out into the world

babylonian: …. they put it out. its gone its not theirs they released it its free

pencil_rain: ok. sure. yeah

babylonian: so do you think the author is dead? do you think thats a thing?

pencil_rain: i mean not really? that doesnt really make sense to me

pencil_rain: like if im over here playing idk

pencil_rain: pubg

pencil_rain: i know where it comes from and where mmos are at what what niche its filling for an audience

pencil_rain: i know shit abt production and the cost it took to make

pencil_rain: and i find that useful bc it informs how i play the game

babylonian: i feel it. but i guess my question is, should we view things from the perspective of the writer or the reader?

babylonian: i think the reader bc i mean. i am always gonna be the reader

babylonian: and i know myself and i dont know the writer. does it even matter that the author is alive? all we have is our own reality

babylonian: it seems like a waste to spend all that time thinking abt someone u dont know, esp if its about an era youre not familiar with or a culture

babylonian: u could just be figuring yourself out instead

pencil_rain: oh that strikes me as real irresponsible. tbh its kinda taako, u know

babylonian: oh yeah i know

babylonian: from tv

pencil_rain: fuck ok thats good my dude

babylonian: lol thx

pencil_rain: like ok part of the conceit in the latest taz is that hes been around just himself for a century and everyone else is dust

pencil_rain: and we as humans automatically see that as very, very sad; its real clear that thats not normal and hes not ok if hes thinking things like this

pencil_rain: we know that we need to be connected to our humanity and humanity is other people

babylonian: i dont see it that way tho? i see it as a revelation about who gets to matter in your life

babylonian: and we’ve spent all of our social time as humans caring about other people and what they think and the idea that the author is dead is so

babylonian: freeing

babylonian: it doesn’t mean we have to stop taking other people into account. it just means we can stop taking the author into account

babylonian: so like if the author is from another culture u don’t have to be familiar with that culture. it makes media less exclusionary

babylonian: it gives power back to the reader. u can interpret how u may regardless of the ~~original intent

pencil_rain: see i like that

pencil_rain: i like the idea of letting people interpret things as they will bc it seems so

pencil_rain: ???

pencil_rain: high and mighty?? idk

pencil_rain: to make something and then watch somebody play with it and then be like

pencil_rain: no thats wrong! dont play with it that way!

babylonian: yeah yeah yeah

babylonian: ok thats what im getting at

pencil_rain: like as a creator i love when theres interaction w something ive made. that feels so good to look out and see that

babylonian: yeah its the best feeling

babylonian: like lol iw as fuckin around but look! somebody liked it! wtf

pencil_rain: yeah its always confounding bc i at least always make things just

pencil_rain: that i will think are great. thats my metric

pencil_rain: do i love this

pencil_rain: if yes, then publish

babylonian: ok basically yes. like i want to be myself and if being myself gets me an audience then that is delightful

babylonian: but what if people arent using the content right

pencil_rain: ? in what sense

babylonian: like w halo and machinima. not the original use

babylonian: ur using copyrighted assets and ur doing harm to the creator by using it in a way thats not ok by the creator

pencil_rain: i feel like youre devils advocating here bc machinima is like

pencil_rain: definitely ok

babylonian: lol of course. no machinima is amazing

babylonian: fuck this is hard to parse

babylonian: ok but imagine one lead programmer who spent like a year animating that one guys arm and now youre just having him jack off for a funny video

babylonian: and u spent time + effort + lots of money on these assets and some jizzrag comes in and just takes them

pencil_rain: but like

pencil_rain: u did that

pencil_rain: you built and released the game and people bought it

pencil_rain: and now they own it

pencil_rain: and its not yours

babylonian: but thats so shitty to not have control. like i agree that machinima is great

babylonian: lol we kinda switched sides

pencil_rain: well yeah now i get what youre saying and im like !! fucking of course its okay to use the thing however u want

babylonian: just like u made the thing so thats terrible that its not yours anymore???

pencil_rain: but it is yours UNTIL u release it. and then its gone. u hit upload on the internet and if u said a bad word bam there it is

pencil_rain: ur permanently branded a pottymouth

pencil_rain: no takebacksies on the webs

babylonian: i guess i just wish people would b decent. i think youre right

babylonian: the author is dead

babylonian: theres nothing you can really 

babylonian: do

babylonian: about it

babylonian: what youve realeased is no longer yours 

babylonian: it just seems. uncomfortable

pencil_rain: well, yeah

babylonian: like youre creating weapons and handing them out

pencil_rain: bc youve put all this work into a thing and made it

pencil_rain: you grew your own child

pencil_rain: yeah you made this thing and now people can hurt other people with it

pencil_rain: but its better to. you know

pencil_rain: to trust other people. to trust them to do good

pencil_rain: and if they dont do good, to maybe read it a little different

pencil_rain: to think that they arent being bad necessarily

babylonian: yeah yeah that theyre just being different than you

pencil_rain: but that theyre being something else

pencil_rain: yeah exactly!

babylonian: sticks n stones tho. thats not true

pencil_rain: i mean, of course

pencil_rain: the point of words is to convey a meaning

pencil_rain: meanings mean intents

pencil_rain: intent leads to action

pencil_rain: action can lead to harm

pencil_rain: also, cyberbulling

babylonian: u just gotta be careful u know

babylonian: dont cyberbully

pencil_rain: i miss the part of the late 90s were u just put cyber- in front of everything

babylonian: yeah those were the days

babylonian: i guess boundaries abt who is the author and when are really hard

babylonian: u consume a thing, right? and it affects u

babylonian: changes you. and then u create a thing

babylonian: and release it

babylonian: and it goes back and affects someone else and its this big cycle

babylonian: where are you the author and where are you the reader

babylonian: does every word you put into the air become someone else’s to transform? every gesture?

babylonian: whats the limit?

pencil_rain: i mean theres not a limit.

pencil_rain: there cant be a bright line w personal interaction + influence

pencil_rain: its social skills at a certain point. and common sense

babylonian: but that can be misinterperted so easily

pencil_rain: but thats the cost of existing and interacting tho

pencil_rain: that u are just. constantly emitting shit that might harm someone

pencil_rain: but also gaining w every interaction

babylonian: griffin

babylonian: im afraid of hurting people

babylonian: i dont want to put pain out there

pencil_rain: nick

babylonian: i just want to make people happy

pencil_rain: oh

babylonian: i want to contribute just by being myself i guess 

babylonian: validation.

pencil_rain: nick no

pencil_rain: it sucks but youre gonna fuck up.

pencil_rain: dont make me go all after school special on you

pencil_rain: u gotta fuck up

babylonian: but it sucks

pencil_rain: well yeah

babylonian: ugh

babylonian: ughhhhhhhh

pencil_rain: no pain no gain

babylonian: oh good, platitudes

babylonian: comforting af

pencil_rain: i try babe

babylonian: im gonna just tweet “the author is dead” and see what happens

pencil_rain: yeah cuz u need more nerds on ur dick

babylonian: somebody just replied w a picture of douglas adams

pencil_rain: oh shit too soon

babylonian: whats the tldr for this conversation? be kind?

pencil_rain: yea and dont worry abt fucking up

pencil_rain: cuz u gotta

babylonian: be fucking kind

pencil_rain: i mean

pencil_rain: sure

babylonian: i have a pretty meta question for you here at the end of all things, my dude

pencil_rain: hit me

babylonian: wanna fuck?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: a REALLY hot day | rated Teen & Up

“North Carolinians—” says Nick.

“North Carolingians? North Carolinites? NORCS?”

“Gr _iff_ in—”

“No, fuck, what do Norcs do when it’s hot, Nicolas?”

“You—have to not say that ever again. That has to be a word that you stop saying, forever.”

“Stop me, then.”

They’re at Ikea because Griffin is fucking ridiculous. All Nick had said was, “Hey, what did you do when it was this hot last summer?” And all Griffin had said was, “Hey, get in the car. This is gonna be spiffy!”

Which really should have been the first warning. Of many.

Now they’re deep in the rugs and draperies and Griffin has exactly three things on his flat: a fresh, unwieldy rolled-up mattress, a box of chocolate crisps, and a potato peeler. Nick has contributed a lovely little white box he figures he can store 3DS cartridges in. Griffin’s hiding badly behind a rug rack, totally visible except for the left third of his body.

“If I cannot see _you_ , you cannot see _me_ ,” he laughs. He’s wearing an old Uncharted t-shirt that rides up a little when he’s not paying attention, and Nick gets tunnel vision when he sees a stripe of skin, just wide enough for him to place his hand on.

“I can see you, though, you dummy,” Nick says. He pulls the rug hiding Griffin back, and Griffin throws up his hands comically.

“Oh shit, not a Norc! Don’t hurt me! What is that, like, a night orc? No, that’s way too obvious—”

“Stop saying that, it’s too stupid,” Nick says. “North Carolinian. Tar heel, maybe, if you’re cute.”

“Oh, tar heel, then. You’re a tar heel. I’m using that. Notice how I’m using that because I’m cute?”

“Yeah,” Nick says. “You’re cute.” He pushes Griffin back a little, into the rug behind him, and lays a hand on that soft triangle of hip, and kisses him.

Griffin gasps against Nick’s mouth, a smile breaking out at the corners of his lips, and leans into the kiss, teasing. Nick could just live here, listening, tasting, feeling; the slow murmur of shoppers and the clacking of carts, Griffin’s hitched breath and the tang of his tongue, the solidity and assurance in the press of their bodies. 

Nick pulls away, making sure to leave his hand where it is, hot on Griffin’s bare skin. Griffin’s so fucking easy—he’s already a little red, a little out of breath, trying to hide it. 

“Easy there,” Nick grins.

“Me? Me, I’m fine,” Griffin says, too quickly, “I’m cool. It’s cool in here. It’s all cool.”

“That’s funny, because you’re looking a little flushed.”

“Huh. Weird. Unexpected. Unprecedented. Unnatural. Weird. I already said that.”

“You’re babbling,” Nick says. Griffin opens his mouth, a little protesting line between his brows, but Nick puts the pad of his pointer finger to Griffin’s bottom lip, and the words wither. “It’s alright. I like shutting you up.” He squeezes Griffin’s hip for good measure.

“Mh,” says Griffin, bug-eyed.

“The air conditioning’s not bad here,” Nick says mildly. “That’s why you brought me, hm? That being-outside feel without being outside?”

“Yeah,” Griffin says. Nick removes his finger slowly, but Griffin remains transfixed on it. “Yeah, no. I mean,” he laughs. “It’s dumb.”

“Now you _have_ to tell me.”

Griffin smiles. “It’s just—everything I need for my home is right here.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: ok but imagine nick getting so worked up when he and griffin are making out and getting handsy that he straight up cums in his pants......... | explicit

Griffin’s got him pinned and it’s hot and dark and claustrophobic and all he can sense is pressure and heat. Griffin’s leg is wedged between his thighs and one hand is fisted in Nick’s hair and the other is wrapped, ironlike, around Nick’s wrist. Nick knows he’s making horrible noises and moving too much, begging and writhing and gasping like he’s never been touched before, and God, it’s not even the first time, but—he just can’t get over this, this fever, this thrill.

Between sucking his pulse, Griffin’s hissing in his ear, “You’re so easy, you’re so hot, you want it so bad, _fuck_ , all I have to do is ride you, all I have to do is touch you—” And he slides the hand that was in Nick’s hair down Nick’s body to palm his cock through his boxers, and Nick breathes out hard, twists his whole body at the sensation.

“God, I just want to _eat_ you, Nick, _fuck_ ,” Griffin whispers. All he’s doing is running his hand, open-palmed, up and down Nick’s cock, but the rhythm is right and Griffin’s laying on Nick’s lungs and legs and suddenly it’s not enough, and Nick splays his thighs open as much as he can and Griffin leans in _further_ , crushing him _more_ , and strokes him faster and faster and Nick cries out and clutches at Griffin’s arms helplessly and comes, shaking.

“Oh my God, oh, fuck, Nick, fuck,” Griffin is saying. Nick can hardly breathe and the chemicals are choking him and he buries his face in Griffin’s shoulder, and Griffin holds him, shushing and soothing and stroking Nick’s hair, for a long time, into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: okay but like. consider this: Nick using vibrators and a ton of other weird toys on Griffin and Griffin is a fucking mess and loving it and its making Nick really jealous so they switch places and Griffin is trying to figure out how all of these things work and keep Nick feeling as good as he did but nothing is working and its hell | rated explicit

It isn’t until the ropes are tight that Griffin figures out he can’t figure out the hand vibe. 

“Shit, sorry,” Griffin says, fumbling with the cords. He twists them back around and the battery cartridge pops out of its sleeve. “Fuck!”

Nick is about to break his fucking wrists; he can’t help but tug desperately at the ropes. “Do you need help? Jesus, Griffin—” He presses his knees together, irritated and amused.

“Sorry, I’m literally the worst,” Griffin laughs, bright. His hair is plastered to his head and the way he’s sitting makes his stomach fold into thick hills and it’s suddenly a revelation seeing him like this, sweaty and naked and guileless, glaring at two simple fingerpads and some cords and a battery box like they’re a boss fight.

“You just—you only need to put one of those on, Jesus,” says Nick, trying to keep sharpness out of his tone. “C’mon, Griffin, _please_ —”

Griffin pauses. “Oh, sorry,” he says, laying his palms on the bed and leaning around to look Nick in the eye. “Am I being too slow?”

Nick can’t even fucking pretend. _“Yes,”_ he bites out, rolling his hands in their restraints. “Please, Griffin, just—use something else, or _do_ something—”

Griffin looks around thoughtfully. “Alright.” He runs his hands over the array set up on the nightstand. “These might be good, but—” He picks up two black nipple clamps and twists the tightener on one of them. “Might take too long to figure out, y’know. Maybe this—” He puts the clamps down and picks up a cock ring. “I think I can figure out how this works.”

“Griffin, come on, _please_ ,” Nick says. “ _Touch_ me.”

Griffin eyes him. “I know,” he says, and picks up two straps connected to a fat rubber ball. “I’ll give you this and figure all these fiddly little toys out as I can, and you’ll just fucking deal with it. Won’t you, Nick?” And he grins and puts the ball gag in Nick’s mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> concept!!!!!!! simone keeps sending griffin videos of her fucking nick and griffin is dying | simone/nick/griffin, rated explicit

He knows it’s bad quality purely because Simone is a fucking troll. She has a million cameras and she’s using her shitty phone camera because she’s the worst person on the planet. But it doesn’t fucking matter—he’s shoved his underwear down inelegantly and is stroking himself with increasing urgency, because Simone is talking.

“You hear that, Griffin?” she says. Her hair is a negative, void-like halo around her face, and what he can see of her, from her shoulders up, is jerking rhythmically. She alternates between biting her lip and staring, intensely focused, right beyond the lens, and looking straight at the camera, her pupils huge and blurring in the low light. “You know what that sound is? Of course you know what that sound is. You’re not a fucking idiot, unlike this one.” What he can see of her shoulder makes a violent motion, and there’s a slapping sound, and a muffled moan. “Hey, Nick, shut the _fuck_ up. You know what that was, too, Griffin. God, I wish you were here—I wish I had you tied up with my underwear stuffed in your mouth.” She licks a drop of sweat off her upper lip and tosses her head back; her neck and collarbones gleam with perspiration. “Maybe I could have this—” Her shoulder jerks and there’s the slapping sound again, but no moan this time. “Very good,” she adds, glancing down. “Maybe I could have this one right in front of your dick, just close enough that he can’t get to it. God, he really wants it—don’t you, Nick? Yeah, you can respond. Wait—” The image shifts and the framerate crashes. Griffin groans in frustration, but the image recrystallizes a few seconds later right in front of Nick’s face, so close it’s blurry.

Nick’s eyes are closed and his mouth is open. There’s a deep crease between his brows and he’s glowing from the smudges on the lens. His eyes flicker open, slowly, like he can’t quite focus. He’s still, and then he jerks suddenly and his eyes fly open.

“Hey, shithead, tell Griffin what you want to do,” Simone says, out of frame.

“Griffin,” Nick whispers. He licks his lips and swallows and tries again. “Griffin,” he says, and his eyes open all the way and point into the viewfinder, right into Griffin’s gaze like arrows. “I want—I want you to— _ah_!” He jerks again, and Simone leans into the frame and wraps one hand around Nick’s chin, pulling his lip down with her thumb.

“I’d hold his mouth open for you,” Simone says. “Gives me a better angle to fuck him, anyway.” And what Griffin can see of her body undulates, and Nick lets out a tiny oh and his eyelids flutter. “Fucking talk, Nick.” She gives his lip a pinch and draws her hand back and into his hair and fists it, pulls his face up.

“Griffin,” Nick says again. “I want you on my face—I want your cock so far down my throat I’m breathing it—fuck, I want you to come on my face, I want to suck you dry—”

The image moves again and it’s just Simone, now, just the top half of her face. “And that’s all for your free bonus trial,” she says, grinning. “If you want any more, buy a fucking plane ticket, you goddamn miser. Oh wait, you’re at a conference for another four days.” She winks. “Guess you’re getting another four videos.” Her grin widens, and her head jerks again, and this time Nick cries out, and the video stops.

Griffin drops his phone and digs the nails of one hand hard into his thigh, imagining Simone’s tongue fucking into his mouth, forcing herself between his lips; imagining Nick mouthing at his inner thigh, his breath hot on Griffin’s cock, moving to wrap his lips around Griffin’s dick and swallow. He squeezes his cock harder and gasps and comes, his entire body shuddering, and when he’s done and a little woozy because he whacked his head against the wall when he sat back, he thinks, _How the fuck am I going to handle four more videos of this?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unfinished and im posting it because i want to get it the fuck out of my drafts. this will not be finished. in retrospect i kinda cant believe i wrote nick as a manipulative asshole with a heart of gold. fuck everything.
> 
> anyway, this started out as two separate stories i was going to combine into one, so when you see this symbol — = [] = — it means there's a narrative break/reset.
> 
> i literally haven't reread this to edit it so sorry for typos/continuity shit i guess. also there should be italics in this but it takes too much fucking effort to add them back bc google docs =/= ao3 so. whatever.

=

They’re up too late and there are too many empty glasses. Nick’s barstool is too close to Griffin’s, he knows—their knees keep touching and Nick has to swing his leg casually, act like it was just an accidental touch. Act like it was nothing. Like his very nerves aren’t starving for this.

“Get me—get me food,” Griffin says. “I think I need food.” Griffin’s wearing a white dress shirt with two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. He may have lost the jacket and tie, or maybe they’re back in his room; Nick really can’t recall. He can’t focus because Griffin’s forearm is against his, hot, and Griffin is drinking a sweaty glass of water, and misses a bit, and a drop of it rolls over his lip and down his chin, and he laughs and swipes at his mouth.

Nick gets them bread and bar nuts and a lime because he flirted with the bartender earlier and she’ll give him whatever he wants. That’s how it works: you’re nice, you charm, you smile and tilt your head and ask questions and laugh and lean and it’s easy. It’s easy to draw them in. She slipped her phone number over with the last gin and tonic, hopeful, and he loves the way her eyes linger on his neck and hands, and that’s what he tries to focus on. Whenever he’s with Griffin, that’s what he tries to focus on—the waiter’s lean arms, or Simone’s jawline, or Justin’s eyes, or anything, anyone else.

It never fucking works.

“You doing okay there, bud?” he says, because Griffin has lapsed into silence after devouring the bread. 

“Yeah,” Griffin says into his plate. “Yeah.” He’s got a crumb on the corner of his mouth and Nick gestures at it. Griffin looks so vulnerable, for a second, trying to figure out what Nick is saying, his eyes going big and confused.

“You’ve got—” Nick says.

“Oh, shit,” Griffin says, and licks the corner of his lip, and Nick knows he’s staring, but fuck it, it’s who-knows past midnight and he can pass it off as the social lubricant’s fault, if he needs.

“You got it,” Nick says. Griffin laughs a little and tries to pick up his water glass and fumbles it and drops it right on his chest.

Griffin starts cursing and the bartender comes over with a towel and Nick tries to help, he really does, but he can’t stop laughing. Griffin starts laughing too, big wheezing laughs that Nick is used to hearing from far away because Griffin always leans away from his microphone when he laughs like that. There’d be a metaphor there if he weren’t too lit to find it.

“Fuck, c’mon, let’s—” Griffin gives up toweling himself dry and starts fumbling for his wallet. “C’mon. I have to take this shit off.”

Nick turns to the bartender. “My room’s three ten,” he says. “Put everything on my tab.” Griffin has managed to get his wallet out and pins some cash under the bowl of nuts. “Sorry about this—can’t take him anywhere,” Nick adds, throwing an arm around Griffin.

“Wait—get the receipt, for expenses,” Griffin says, still pulling at his shirt. He’s making faces; it must be cold.

“I’ll make sure it gets on your bill,” the bartender says, smiling, and Nick thinks: God. She’s generous. He nods his head at her and gives her a big smile and Griffin thanks her, still distracted, and they go to the elevators.

In the lobby, Griffin says, “Sorry I’m a mess.”

He does look a little like he got hit by a truck. His shirt is half untucked from his dress pants and is plastered to his thick stomach. There are purple shadows under his eyes and his hair is sticking up from where he’s been running his hand through it. 

“You’re not—you’re fine,” Nick says. He tries to make his voice rich and benevolent, and it slides right off Griffin, as usual. “You look fine.”

“Shut the fuck up, I look like a trash heap right now. And I feel like one.” Griffin stabs at the elevator button. “You don’t have to be so fucking smooth to me. I’m not the bartender you’re trying to pick up.”

Nick looks at him. Griffin’s been too relaxed all night for the amount of stress they’ve been under this week. All of that is gone. Griffin’s hackles are up—his shoulders are tense and high and he’s staring up at the floor number with a black line between his brows. 

“I wasn’t trying to pick up the bartender,” Nick says slowly.

“Oh? Well, you got her number anyway,” Griffin snaps. The elevator dings and Griffin practically shoulders the doors open to get inside. “You don’t have to come up with me. We can be done for the night.”

“I don’t think so,” Nick says, following Griffin into the elevator. Griffin turns around and stares a little up at him, a not insignificant amount of shock registering around his eyes. “Not if you’re gonna be like this.”

“Like what?” Griffin returns. He hits his floor—seven—and Nick’s—three. “I’m fine, I’m just fucking exhausted, and I don’t want to cockblock you.”

“Please never use that term again,” Nick says. “I wasn’t trying to pick her up.”

Griffin rubs at his temples. “Okay. Whatever. Here’s your floor.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Nick doesn’t move.

“What?” says Griffin.

“Can I come to your room?” Nick says.

Griffin gets that look again, big-eyed and confused. “Why?”

Nick shrugs. “I’m not gonna go to sleep for another couple of hours. You seem like you need to get out of this shitty mood you’re in suddenly.”

The doors shut and the elevator whirrs up again. “I don’t have to,” Nick adds, because that expression is persisting on Griffin’s worn face. “We don’t have to hang out.”

“No, I—it’s fine,” Griffin says. “I was gonna do some work, but—”

“Dude, it’s one thirty and you’re four drinks in. Have some self-preservation,” Nick says. “C’mon, we can play Spore or something.”

That rips a laugh from Griffin. They trash-talk Will Wright out of the elevator and down the hallway. Griffin’s room is identical to Nick’s, but mirrored and with weirder art. Nick sits down on the edge of one of the beds and pulls out his phone as Griffin starts to go through his suitcase.

“Public speaking sucks,” Griffin says, dropping a stack of shirts on the desk. “I don’t know how you handle it.”

“Dude, you’re the one who does live shows, like, every couple of months,” says Nick. He retweets about eight things from Pat and then closes Twitter. “I just stream a lot.”

“I guess.” Griffin extracts shorts and closes the suitcase. “I don’t really stream a lot. Well, stream my face.”

“It’s fun,” Nick says. He’s flicking between Periscope and Twitch now. “I like seeing things from different points of view.”

“That’s why I kinda love Vine,” Griffin says. “I love that good brief personal streaming. Short format. You don’t have to take a ton of people’s time. Feels nice.”

“You’re definitely less of a millennial than me in the metaselfie department,” Nick says. He opens up a private Periscope stream and starts looking at the settings. 

“Kinda,” Griffin says. He glances at Nick quickly. “I take a lot of videos, I just don’t post them.”

Nick shuts off his phone. “I’m sorry, what?”

Griffin shrugs. “Just things. I like recording… stuff. Different stuff.”

“That’s maybe the most suspicious thing I’ve ever heard a human say,” Nick says. “Recording what? Murder? Your neighbors having sex? Worms eating lettuce?”

“Just stuff,” Griffin says, and gathers his clothes and goes into the bathroom, which makes Nick’s heart stop pretty unexpectedly. He remembers, in vivid color, laughing with Griffin and Tara after the first PoolGames Inc. in the mud room of their Airbnb. Remembers Griffin peeling his shirt off and Tara wrapping a towel around Griffin’s shoulders and making fun of his shivering. Remembers trying to pull his socks off and sliding down the wall and Tara helping him with one foot and Griffin helping him with the other, and collapsing in a heap on the couch with both of them, Griffin’s bare chest up against his arm, Tara’s amazing thighs draped over his lap, giggling and damp, wide awake.

Griffin comes back out in shorts and a t-shirt. He doesn’t look at Nick and shoves his balled-up clothes into a plastic bag next to the bed. 

“We could stream something,” Nick says. “Do a CGI speed run.” He waits. Griffin’s not looking at him. “Or I could leave.”

“No,” Griffin says, automatic, and he looks up, meets Nick’s eyes. “No—please stay.”

“Okay,” Nick says, easy, smooth. “Whatever you need.”

“Don’t—” Griffin’s shoulders go up again, and he’s still looking at Nick. “Don’t use that tone, Nick. Not right now.”

“Okay, fuck, what tone?” Nick says. He stands up and crosses his arms over his chest.

“That, like, fucking—oh, it’s okay, I’m nice and I’m glossing over all the shit and everything will be fine even though it’s not tone. I fucking hate it,” Griffin says. “It’s so insincere. Use your real fucking voice when it’s just me and you.”

“Okay, sure,” Nick says, not bothering to keep the bitterness out. “Sure. I’ll just change my entire voice for you.”

“I’m not fucking saying that, Nick!” Griffin yells. “Why don’t you ever fucking listen to me? Why don’t you—God.” He pulls back, visibly. “Never mind. You can go. Go fuck your bartender.”

“Will you shut up about her?” Nick says. “That’s not you, being so douchey. I don’t want to f—I don’t want to do that. I want to—” And he stops.

“What?” says Griffin.

Nick’s been shifting between thoughts all night, between that calculating easiness he’s always got in his back pocket and his dumb tingly feelings about sincerity and human bonds. A lot of his existence is lived across the continental divide of candor and irony and he loves drinking from the mixed source stream. He learned it from Griffin, really; from Griffin’s voice talking about inevitability and absurdity in the same breath. That’s their conceit, together: you mean what you say, until you don’t, and you don’t mean what you say, until you do.

“It’s very important that you know this,” Nick says slowly. “You’re right that I can be kind of a manipulative asshole.” Griffin lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. “But you notice every fucking time and you either play along or ignore me, and it drives me crazy.”

“Well, yeah,” Griffin says. “I know you.”

“And you’re wrong that I never fucking listen to you,” Nick says. “I listen to you all the time.”

Griffin squints a little. He looks a lot smaller in shorts and a t-shirt, less sharp. He’s been standing by the hallway entrance this whole time, and now he comes over to stand right in front of Nick, who’s still in front of the bed.

“You do listen,” Griffin says, soft. “You really don’t want to fuck that bartender.”

“I mean, she was beautiful,” Nick says, and looks at Griffin’s crooked mouth, the shine on his lips; looks at Griffin’s wide eyes and messy hair. Gives in. “But she’s not the one I wanna fuck.”

Griffin surges forward and kisses him.

The sun sets and rises between them. Nick’s never kissed someone like this, like it’s everything. Griffin kissed him first but it’s easy to shift gears, take control, take Griffin’s face in his palms and lick into his mouth, bite at his lips and sigh. Griffin melts against him and Nick turns them around as best he can with Griffin making little whimpering noises into Nick’s mouth and pushes Griffin onto the bed.

“Nick,” Griffin says, on his back, supporting himself with his elbows, and God, Nick’s heard that tone before—heard it when he tells a particularly funny joke, when he makes fun too closely, when he needs to leave but Griffin’s not ready to be done. He had no fucking clue. It’s been there all along and he missed it, like an idiot, thought he was alone and didn’t realize what he was fucking up.

“Griffin,” Nick replies, just to watch the way Griffin’s head lolls back, the grin that plays across his mouth. 

“I’m so fucking stupid,” Griffin says. “Nick, I’m so stupid—fuck, will you c’mere?” He lets one shoulder down onto the bed and reaches his hand out, demanding. “I want you.”

That goes straight to his dick. Nick can’t help but palm himself through his trousers, and this noise comes out of Griffin when he sees Nick do that. Griffin’s mouth falls open and he moans and his eyes roll up in his head and Nick laughs because he somehow forgot that Griffin was an absolute drama queen.

“Don’t joke,” says Griffin, riding that edge between dead serious and kidding. “Nick, I’ve been wanting this, don’t make me wait anymore, get over here—get over here and fuck me—”

Nick almost trips scrambling onto the bed. He crowds Griffin down, shoving him into the mattress and kissing him desperately. Griffin claws at his back, cradles his head; Nick can’t switch between being adoring and lewd fast enough. He lays his whole body on top of Griffin, head to toe like a mirror, and Griffin fights him, loving it, squirming under Nick and gasping into his mouth every time Nick tries to pin a wrist or a leg.

Nick finds himself mouthing words into Griffin’s neck; he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Part of him pulls back a little to listen: “Griffin, fuck, you’re so hot, you’re so good, I want you, I want this, Griffin—” Fuck, it’s too embarrassing, and he sucks a kiss underneath Griffin’s ear to shut himself up, and Griffin whines, long and loud. At least they’re being embarrassing together.

“I like you talking,” Griffin says at one point. Nick pulls away, gets up on his balls of his palms and looks at Griffin, nestled in the comforter below, bright-eyed and slick-mouthed. “I like your words. Good words.”

Nick laughs from his stomach. “How’re those words? They good?”

“Good words,” Griffin repeats, grinning. “I’m word too, yeah?”

“Yeah, you word,” says Nick. “You better word.”

“You—wait, as in, I had better word, like, I should word? Or I have better words?”

Nick groans. “The syntax is starting to escape me.”

“Too big word.”

“I hate you so much,” Nick says, a little too sincerely, and buries his face in Griffin’s neck again to hide it. 

“Wait,” Griffin says, putting his hands on Nick’s shoulders. Nick’s stomach twists around in panic but he pulls back and tries to keep a neutral expression. “Okay, listen.” Griffin bites his lip and looks all nervous and Nick has to shift off of him. They prop themselves up on their elbows and look at each other and Nick is incredibly aware of how they are not touching each other anymore.

“This got too serious,” Griffin says. Nick’s expression must change because Griffin says, “No! No—I mean, what I was trying to say got too serious—fuck. Okay, shit, I just want to make sure we are on the same page?” He tilts his head, concern written on every line of his face.

“Okay,” says Nick. “Okay. Well, the page that I’m on has a lot of dirty illustrations, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure about the rest of the book yet, but it seems like a pretty fucking great book.”

Griffin laughs and exhales. “Good,” he says. “Fantastic. That is also where I’m at in the book.”

“You’re just really fucking hot,” Nick says, nearly stumbling over the words. He knows he’s gone red and he’s trying to maintain eye contact but it’s so hard when he feels like he’s going to evaporate. 

= [] =

Nick wants to look everywhere at once.

There are a lot of options. He can look at Griffin’s phone, which he’s barely holding on to, or the wall mirrors on either side of them. He can look at the hotel ceiling and close his eyes and just focus on what’s happening. Or, and this one is both the best and the worst choice, he can look straight down at Griffin, who is on his knees in front of Nick.

“You ready?” Griffin says. No, he doesn’t say it—he fucking grins it. He’s significantly tipsy, and Nick would be real worried about consent if he wasn’t also a little drunk. What a fun way to make terrible choices together.

“Fuck yes, dude,” says Nick, voice a lot higher pitched than normal, and Griffin licks his fucking lips. 

“It’s going?” Griffin says. He shifts slightly on his ankles, getting comfortable, and his hands flex on his thighs; Nick honestly blacks out a little. He’s got maybe a gram of blood left above his waist. 

“Yeah, it’s going,” says Nick, looking down at the fucking video he’s recording on Griffin’s phone. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“Oh, good,” says Griffin, really wrapping his lips around that oh in an interesting way. “Can’t wait to see it.”

“Mmhm,” says Nick, trying and failing really hard not to sound completely strangled. “I mean, same.”

There’s an awkward pause at this point, because they are seriously on the edge of the fucking cliff, here. The timer on the phone blinks gently at forty-five seconds, forty-six, forty-seven. Thanks to the mirrors on either side of them and the video, Nick feels like he’s viewing this scene like a game. He has so many points of view available to him, and it’s overwhelming. 

“You know what I want,” Griffin says abruptly, and he can barely say it. His pupils are completely blown. He shifts again and palms his dick through his pants and stares up at Nick through pale lashes, hungry, and that’s it. That’s all Nick needed.

“No, I know exactly what you want,” Nick says, hearing his voice go stronger, lighter. He leans down and grabs Griffin’s short hair and forces his head back. Griffin makes the worst noise, like somebody’s just punched him in the gut, and Nick kisses him, hard.

They haven’t done this, and it’s weird and hot and unsettling all at once. Nick is keenly aware of how he’s bent over awkwardly, teeth first, exposed. He probably looks silly and uncomfortable in the mirrors and he knows he’s not keeping a good angle on the phone. But that’s a different and very lesser part of his consciousness, because most of him is focused on fucking Griffin’s mouth with his tongue and how fucking good that is, how good those noises are that Griffin is making, how Griffin’s lips are hot and trembling and he’s clutching at Nick’s hips and thighs, fingers fluttering helplessly.

Nick pulls away and Griffin almost falls forward, but Nick’s still got him by the hair, and that catches him. Griffin lets out a frighteningly loud moan. “You’re being a good boy,” Nick says softly, leaning his forehead against Griffin’s. “A real good boy. But you gotta be a quiet boy too. Can’t be inconsiderate porno neighbors.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Griffin whispers, comically low. 

“But I know you can’t fucking help it,” Nick says, drawing out the f. “Fuck, Griffin. Fuck.” And he tilts Griffin’s head back and kisses him again, as dirty as he can make it. Griffin starts making obscene noises again, but quieter, more desperate, and he fucking whimpers when Nick runs the hand that isn’t holding his hair along his jawline.

Griffin gasps into Nick’s mouth when Nick wraps his thumb and forefinger around Griffin’s throat and squeezes. “Tell me we’re gonna do,” says Nick, letting go of Griffin’s hair and moving the phone between his face and Griffin’s for the optimal shot. He releases Griffin’s throat and cups the back of his neck instead, keeping Griffin’s face tilted upwards.

Griffin stares into the lens. “I’m gonna choke on your dick,” he says.

Nick has to close his eyes and breathe. “Fuck, Griffin.”

“Yeah, Nick.” Griffin is panting now. “I want you to shove your dick down my fucking throat. I want to taste you in my feet. Fuck, yeah, I fucking want that, I want you to fuck my mouth, Nick, I want you inside me, I want—ah—”

Nick curls his fingers into the back of Griffin’s neck and pulls him forward roughly. “Holy fuck. Keep going.”

“I want you,” Griffin hisses, and leans forward to mouth at Nick’s dick through his jeans. “You're gonna take your dick out and fucking give it to me.” He’s not breaking eye contact with the lens. “I'm not gonna be able to talk tomorrow. How’s the sound of that, Nick? I’ll be recording some fucking video with you and my voice is gonna be all raspy and shit and you're gonna know. You're gonna know your dick did that to me, Nick. You're gonna be sitting there on a livestream listening to me try to talk and thinking about how my lips were all up on your dick last night. Thinking about how you fucked me so hard I can’t even fucking speak.”

“Griffin,” Nick says. “Holy—holy shit.” The phone is trembling in his hand as it autofocuses on Griffin, who grins, again, and licks his lips a little, again. “Shit, you’re gonna be good.” Nick flexes the hand on the back of Griffin’s neck again, digging his nails in a little, and Griffin’s eyelids flutter automatically. “I’m gonna fuck you up so good,” he says, enunciating each word. He guides Griffin’s head forward until his nose is touching Nick’s jeans. “Well?” Nick says.

“Yeah,” Griffin breathes, “yeah,” and he reaches up, and his hands are shaking a little, and he’s pale and focused. Nick removes his hand and watches on the screen as Griffin delicately unbuttons his jeans and pulls down the zipper. 

“Off,” says Nick. 

“Yes, sir,” Griffin says, and tugs Nick’s jeans off his hips, making sure to run his thumbnails down Nick’s legs as he pulls down. Nick makes a noise and almost drops the phone on Griffin’s face. “Ssh,” Griffin says, running his hands gently back up Nick’s thighs. He kisses Nick’s knee gently, then kisses above his knee and works his way up, running ghostly fingertips up and down the backs of Nick’s thighs until Nick thinks he’s going to die.

“You’re so sensitive,” Griffin whispers into Nick’s hip. He switches from using the pads of his fingers to his nails, and Nick has to cover his mouth with his hand. “You’re so sensitive. Fuck, Nick, I love teasing you, I want to—I want to keep doing this forever—” And he presses his nose into the crease of Nick’s hip and drags his teeth over Nick’s inner thigh.

“Fuck!” Nick bites his lip and runs his free hand through his hair and says fuck a few more times. Griffin starts nosing directly at his dick through his underwear, mouths its length, bites at the edge of the elastic, and Nick has to reach down and put his hand on Griffin’s head.

A little gasp comes out of Griffin when Nick lays his hand down. “Yeah?” Nick says.

“Yeah,” Griffin says, “yeah—fuck. You’re gonna make me choke on it.”

“That’s the idea,” Nick says. “Enough fucking around.” He makes sure his hand on Griffin’s head is in the frame. That’s so, so important for later.

“Shit,” Griffin bites out, and he frees Nick’s dick from his briefs, barely touching him. “You—God. You’re—Nick—”

“Enough,” Nick says. “Open.” Griffin drops his jaw automatically and Nick takes himself in hand and traces the circle of Griffin’s lips with the head of his cock. “You’re gonna give me your best, Griffin,” he says, playing with the corner of Griffin’s lips.

= [] =

he wants to say things like, How can I be without you now that I’ve found you? What are we going to do?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and heres another wip im absolutely not going to finish. theres some sex issues (in the, like, primary & secondary sex characteristics category) so keep that in mind. honestly this fic was a lot about me figuring out my gender but now im pretty sure my gender identity is rage

After a series of increasingly urgent and cryptic texts from Simone, everyone ends up in the hallway outside Griffin’s room. Justin is pacing. Pat is leaning against the wall, scrolling through Twitter. Tara’s talking to Chris and Russ. Nick is trying to talk to Allegra and Phil but he can’t keep the thread of the conversation.

The door opens a crack and Simone squeezes out and shuts it softly behind her. “Okay,” she says, looking around the circle and making eye contact with every one of them. “He’s fine, but something’s happened.”

“Simone, I swear, if you don’t tell me—” Justin starts.

“Justin, I—he’s physically fine—” Simone’s voice goes really weird there, and there’s a familiar bark of muffled laughter from inside the room. “Just come in, and be… be cool.” She keys back into the room and holds the door open, and they file in. 

Griffin is sitting in the middle of the furthest of the two beds in the room, surrounded by pillows. He’s clutching a pillow to his chest and his eyes dart across their faces. Nick knows Griffin’s false confidence when he sees it. This is pure Griffin-in-front-of-a-crowd, when he needs to be acting cool and collected and not telegraphing that he’s scared shitless. But he’s smiling, assured and ironic, too bold; that double-blind face that makes you think he’s doing just fine.

Then Nick notices that Griffin looks different. Physically. He draws back from the tree of Griffin’s expression to the forest of his appearance. His face is—wrong. His face has gone soft. Nick had never, ever thought that Griffin had a harsh face, at all, but his face is even rounder now, and there are big laugh lines crinkling around his eyes, and he doesn’t have any stubble, and his throat is flat, and his hair has come forward and is smooth across the top of his forehead, and thicker, and half an inch longer, and Justin says, “Dude, what? What?”

“Okay, the witch said this would only last for a day,” says Griffin, and takes the pillow away from his chest, and Nick passes out a little bit, and Justin says, “What the—are those boobs?”

=

“This is some Adventure Zone shit,” says Justin.

“This is payback,” Griffin moans. He’s pulled a blanket over himself and is back to clutching at pillows. One foot is poking out and Nick is staring at it. It looks exactly the same. “This is payback for like. All the straight white guy stuff I’ve done.”

“Probably,” says Simone. “I wonder if you’re gonna get your period.”

This makes Griffin stick his head out from under the blanket. His hair looks a lot thicker, but it’s the same nerd-ass cut, which is just… very weird. Are his eyelashes longer? He stares at Simone. “Oh my God.”

“That and catcalled. Those are the two female experiences,” Simone says. Tara gives her a dirty look. “I’m kidding!”

“Jesus. This is fucking weird.” Griffin worms around a little bit, adjusting. “Okay, Simone, Tara, Allegra, let’s just—let’s go ahead and assume the witch was right and this is only gonna last a day. Tell me what I should be doing. Like, what are the number one things you would recommend me doing today?”

“Dude, I’ve always had this going on—” Allegra just gestures to her body. “So I don’t know what to tell you. You’re the one who’s tit-tastic all of a sudden, you tell me.”

“Mastrubate,” says Simone. “Obviously.” Tara nods solemnly. Chris shakes his head slowly and covers his face.

“Okay,” says Justin, “number one, like—you know what, you’re my brother, so this is weird, but also, you gotta—you gotta just bounce around a lot.”

Russ starts cackling and Griffin’s face goes completely red. “I guess?” Griffin says. “But, Justin, you can’t fucking—you can’t fucking say that shit to me. I’m so upset right now.”

“I hate this so much,” Justin chokes. He starts laughing a little hysterically. “F-fuck. Griffin, this is so fucking weird.”

“I’ll get you some lunch,” Tara says. “Unless you want to go down to the restaurant like that?”

“I’m pretty sure the Internet would collectively lose its mind,” Pat says. 

“Yeah, let’s avoid that,” Griffin says, drawing even further under the blanket. “I’d kill a chicken sandwich.”

“Alright, anyone want to help?” Tara says.

“I’ll go,” says Phil.

“I’ll come too,” Nick says, and leaves without looking back.

=

The thing is—and this is the thing—this is the worst thing that has happened to Nick maybe ever.

He goes with Tara and Phil and then unobtrusively detaches himself to go back to his room. It’s evening now and he’s only had a donut and a chicken wing and four Red Bulls all day and he feels like he’s going to throw up. He actually lays down on the bathroom floor for a little while and tries to think about Wolfenstein or jetpacks or 2NE1 or literally anything other than Griffin fucking Mcelroy’s tits.

“Oh, fuck me,” he says into the tile. “Fuck me.”

He just fucking gives in after two cold showers and a solid hour of Good Eats. He puts down his phone, sighs real heavily, shucks off his pants, and falls back onto the bed. He’s already stroking his thigh by the time he’s comfortable, eyes closed and head tilted back, hips twitching as he brushes his fingers around the base of his dick. 

The thing is, it was easy to ignore his baby-ass crush before this. There had been two defined stages of The Thing, as he’d started internally referring to his terrible feelings after he’d actually become Griffin’s coworker. Stage one: fanboy from afar. Simple, easy, no-guilt I’m-high-so-why-not-jack-off-to-this-MBMBAM-best-of-Griffin-playlist meat beating. Stage two: level up (get hired at Polygon), spend one month dry-heaving before Skype calls (start working with Griffin), and assign achievement points in best possible categories (develop a non-awkward and, in fact, extremely successful professional relationship with Griffin). 

Apparently there was going to be a stage three, which was him fucking whacking it to the idea of sucking on Griffin’s clit. Surreal.

He’s just gotten to the part where the base of his spine is tingling and the comforter has fallen off the bed when somebody knocks on the door.

“Uhh, who is it?” Nick sings, almost falling off the bed himself as he scrambles for his jeans. Oh, God, he’s painfully hard, and his hand is damp with precome. Fuck. Shit. He spots pajama pants hanging over the back of a chair and grabs them. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” says Griffin, muffled. “Can I come in?”

Nick nearly concusses himself tripping on a low table. 

“Dude, I do not want to be out in this hallway where anybody could walk up and try to talk to me about last week’s Monster Factory while I’m doing my best not to worry about whether or not I need a fucking bra, so please let me the fuck in,” Griffin hisses through the door.

“Okay, okay, shit, fuck,” Nick says. He plucks at the crotch on the pajama pants, trying to offer himself some disguise, and wipes his hand hastily on the side of the bed. “Jesus, Griffin.” He opens the door.

Griffin throws himself into the room and slams the door shut. He’s wearing sweats and a big green hoodie with a fire flower on it—Allegra’s—and for a moment he’s very close to Nick in the short hallway, looking up at him, big-eyed. Then he ducks away and goes into the room and sits down on the very edge of the bed.

Nick walks forward a few steps and looks at him. Griffin is staring at his dark reflection in the TV and flexing his hands, like he’s trying to feel something that isn’t there. Nick is struck, most strongly, by the difference in his hair; it’s so even across the front, now, thick and maybe shinier, but he could be imagining that. It could be the light.

“I’m sorry to—I’m sorry to bust in,” Griffin says. His voice is different. Not higher—well, it is a little bit—but there’s something tonally off that Nick can’t pinpoint. “I can go. I know this is fucking weird.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Nick says. His hands are moving of their own accord, gesturing sympathy and pity and assurance; probably trying to distract him from the agonizing hardness in his pants. “Do you need something?”

“Uh,” says Griffin, squinting at the TV, still not looking at Nick. “Yeah. But, no, it’s dumb, it’s fine. I’m just freaked and I like. I trust you and shit.” He takes a ragged breath. “This is a lot more estrogen than I’m used to. It’s a lot and I can’t handle being alone.”

Nick can’t help himself. He moves in front of Griffin, kneeling, his hands on Griffin’s knees. “Hey, it’s okay. You feel what you feel and that’s fine. This is temporary. It’s gonna be okay.”

Griffin’s trembling, and Nick has to take a moment to try to figure out if the sudden extreme protectiveness he feels is because Griffin or because sexism. He figures it’s probably both and that also he doesn’t care and grabs Griffin’s hands. “Hey,” he says again. “Hey. You’re fine, my dude. You’re fine.”

“Okay,” Griffin says. “Okay.” And he finally looks into Nick’s eyes.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then, holy shit, Nick hears himself say, “You’re beautiful.”

Griffin’s mouth falls open.

Nick recoils. He scrambles to his feet and backs away, horrified and instantly nauseous. “Shit, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—fuck, I’m sorry, Griffin—”

“Nick—”

“I’m so dumb, I’m so sorry,” Nick babbles. “That’s such gender essentialist language and—oh, shit, not that you’re not b—but I don’t want to—fuck.”

“No, Nick, it’s fine—” And Nick realizes that Griffin is laughing now. He’s smiling, big and toothy, and his shoulders are quivering with mirth. “You’re so—you’re so sweet. It’s fine, it’s fine, I know what you meant, c’mere.”

Nick goes back, but hesitantly, apologetically. “Seriously,” he says. “I know we say boys are beautiful about four times a podcast, but. Context.”

“You’re right, though,” Griffin says thoughtfully. “I am beautiful.”

“Well, yeah,” Nick says, intensely casual.

They grin at each other, and then Griffin says, “Well, I already feel better. Hey—wanna see my tits?”

“Oh my God.”

“They’re super cool,” Griffin says. He pulls the hoodie over his head in a smooth motion. He’s wearing a black Polygon t-shirt underneath. “I tried to show Justin after everybody left but he got all weird.” He stands up and puts his hands on the hem of the t-shirt and Nick feels like his brain is going to collapse.

“Uh, wait, wait—Griffin, seriously, wait,” Nick says desperately, moving forward with his hands out. Griffin looks at him, taken-aback and blank, the hem of the shirt already half a foot up.

“What, you don’t want to see?” God, Griffin sounds so fucking hurt, like Nick has insulted his new body parts directly.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate,” Nick hears himself saying. Griffin actually tilts his head, which Nick has maybe never seen him do before, baffled. 

“They’re breasts,” Griffin says, slowly, like he is talking to a child.

“But they’re your breasts,” Nick says, also slowly. “What the fuck is this conversation? This is literally the weirdest fucking thing that has ever happened to—okay, to not just me; I assume you don’t go around spouting new anatomy on the regular. I just think we should slow down.”

“Is there something we are speeding up to?” Griffin says sharply.

Nick throws up his hands. His face is getting red, he knows. “No! I mean, I don’t think so—just to something that will—something that will change things.”

“It doesn't have to change things,” Griffin says, like it’s dawning on him what Nick is trying to say. “I’m just—this is me trusting you. This is me being normal.” His voice goes up a little. “This is me trying to keep things normal.”

“Oh,” says Nick. “Oh.”

“Like, dude, if you suddenly grew—fucking—wings or some shit, you’d come show me everything they do, right?”

“Well, yeah, but this is different!”

Griffin claws at his face. “It doesn’t have to be different!”

“But it is!” Nick snaps. “It is different, and we’re seeing this different ways, and it’s a big deal, Griffin.”

“You are the one making it into a big deal when it is not,” Griffin says. His tone has gone extremely cold, and he’s drawn himself up. “If you can’t handle this then you don’t have to fucking see me until I’m back to normal.”

“Okay,” says Nick. “I think that would be best.”

And somehow, this causes the strongest reaction yet. Griffin clenches his fists and sticks his neck out and Nick is struck by how completely still he’s gone, icy with anger, absolutely radiating disappointment. “I trust you,” Griffin enunciates. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why can’t you help me? I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Because I can’t handle this,” Nick returns immediately. His nostrils are flared and his breath is too-loud in the leaden silence. “I can’t handle this and it’s unfair of you to ask me to.”

“What the fuck can you not handle? You’re not the one who’s—who’s grown a new set of crops!”

Nick laughs involuntarily, sharp and short. “It’s a change in our dynamic and I’m not comfortable with you not thinking it’s a change,” he says. “You’re being purposefully stupid. That’s why your brother didn’t want to see your tits. Because he’s your damn brother. I know you’re trying to be chill about this but you aren’t fucking getting that—” He laughs again. “I’m sorry. You aren’t getting that this changes everything.”

Griffin laughs too, just as bitterly. “Fuck you. It doesn’t change anything. Except now I know that you don’t give a shit. You won’t be there for me when I need you.”

The cruelty of it is like a knife in the gut. He takes an actual step backwards and feels tears forming, involuntary. “Griffin,” he says, and fuck, his voice sounds broken. “No, I’m—you can’t say that.”

Griffin crosses his arms in front of him, squeezing his forearms with white-knuckled hands. His tone is fucking arctic. “You’re not helping me through this, Nick. What the fuck am I supposed to think? I thought I knew what kind of friends we were. I thought I could rely on you.”

“Fucking—Griff, come on, please,” Nick says, really crying now. He scrubs at his cheeks, presses his shoulder against the wall. “Come on—I want to help you, but you—you fucking, you aren’t going to think of this the same—you’re not going to change but I’m going to change, I’m already changing, I’m already thinking of you—I can’t do this if you’re not going to change.”

“I don’t—what are you saying?” Griffin takes a step forward, hint of concern knitting his brows, but Nick moves back, and it’s satisfying to see Griffin take that like a physical blow. “Nick, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

“There’s a line,” Nick says, pushing his hair back, wiping his damp jaw. “There’s a line, and our lines are different. And you’re trying to cross my line. And I don’t want you to cross my line if you’re not going to cross your line.”

“Okay,” says Griffin, wary, slow. “Okay. I think that makes sense.” He looks helplessly around the room. “Do you need, like, a Kleenex?”

“Fuck,” says Nick. He ducks into the bathroom and blows his nose and wipes his face. He doesn’t look at the mirror. He doesn’t want to see what Griffin sees. When he goes back out, Griffin is staring into the television again. He looks up at Nick. His face has gone soft, and the ice is gone from his posture, and he bites his lip.

“That line,” Griffin says, quiet. “What if I want to—well. What if I want to show you what I look like now?” He touches the hem of his shirt again, hesitant. “What if I—um. Fuck.”

Nick feels like he’s viewing the scene like a game, like he can pause and move the camera, go up close and study Griffin’s face. He’s reached the fork in the critical path. He’s played the game a million times, and he knows where the first fork goes, because he's chosen it before, every time. It goes to long meetings and group gatherings and sending the last text of the night at 1 AM and innuendo that you can shrug off like so much flotsam. It goes to boarding planes alone, to sleeping in the middle of the bed, to languishing, fruitless; to an unexceptional life.

He swallows and squares his shoulders and chooses the second fork and says, “Okay. Take off your shirt.”

Griffin exhales, releasing a breath Nick didn't know he'd been holding. “Okay. Fuck. Okay.”

And he reaches down and pulls off his shirt.

Nick is drawn across the room inexorably. Griffin tosses the shirt into a corner and looks down at himself, nervous, shoulders hunched, and Nick feels the image being carved into his memory: the yellow-gold light, the deep shadows cast by his breasts, the overflow of his stomach, the curve of his shoulders. The geography of Griffin’s body has shifted, like tectonic plates: he has a waist, now, wide hips, thinner shoulders. But it’s him, beyond any doubt; never has something so new looked so familiar.

“Shit,” Nick whispers, aspirating the s. Griffin closes his eyes and straightens himself out, luxurious, stretching his shoulders, his hands flexing nervously at his sides. Nick is a foot away now, drinking him in. “Fuck—Griffin—”

“Touch me,” says Griffin hoarsely. “Please. Please, Nick—”

Nick steps forward and pulls him in, cupping one breast in his hand, the other arm wrapped around Griffin’s waist. Griffin sighs into him, relaxes as they lean into each other, and Nick’s mouth finds Griffin’s neck, kisses underneath his ear gently. “Yes,” Griffin says, “yes, oh, shit, Nick, fuck, will you—God, just fucking—” And then, like he can’t wait any longer, he grabs Nick by the back of the neck and turns his head and kisses him.

Nick tries to think in terms of game mechanics. Maybe this is all of the right items slotted into place, the bump of the boss battle, triggering the perfect ult. Maybe this is music—the bass drops, the key changes, the breath and then the climactic chorus. Maybe this is the cool wind when you crest a hill, sweating, and the sun and the scent of the grass melt into you; or maybe this is the first curling taste of a stiff drink after a long day; or maybe this is soft sheets and down pillows in a dark room, hours and hours before you’re supposed to wake up. 

Maybe this is none of those things, and all of them; maybe it’s like every kiss he’s ever had, except that everything is different. He doesn’t know what to think and he’s thinking everything and it’s hard to focus but so easy to see. 

“I can’t believe this,” Griffin breathes against his mouth. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe we missed this—how did we miss this?”

“We didn’t,” Nick says, drawing the truth out from space between them. “We didn’t.”

“Alright,” Griffin says, “yeah,” and kisses him again.


End file.
